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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25352290">Probably</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/dcfg21/pseuds/dcfg21'>dcfg21</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M, Post-Hogwarts</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 07:27:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,399</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25352290</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/dcfg21/pseuds/dcfg21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A love story in five acts. Probably.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>138</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Probably</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Three months after the Final Battle (or whatever the fuck they’re calling it, Draco really doesn’t know or care), Potter rocks up to the Manor’s front stoop looking sheepish and subdued and far more relaxed than Draco’s ever seen. This ‘at ease’ look only serves to irritate Draco even more, but he reminds himself that if anyone deserves to breathe easy now, it’s definitely Harry fucking Potter. So, he bites back the snark and spite that lives forever at the point of his tongue where Potter’s concerned and greets him with a warm sincerity his mother would be proud of.</p>
<p>The sheepishness slides from Potter’s face in a slow spread at Draco’s humble pleasantries, turning into a swear-to-Merlin all-out smile. Draco’s breath seizes in his chest for a long, slow second as that smile crinkles all the way up Potter’s face into those green, green eyes. He inquires after Draco’s mother, ensuring she’s settled in at home after the trials, how she’s coping with his father’s incarceration, asking if either of them needs anything.</p>
<p>Draco assures them they are doing well despite their circumstances, but thanks him for thinking about her. Potter nods in acceptance, a small flush staining his cheeks as he shoves his hands in his front pockets and rocks back on the heels of the rattiest trainers Draco’s ever laid eyes on. He asks if Draco will be coming back for the newly implemented eighth-year program, because most everybody is, he says. It’s a testament to moving on, he says, and it wouldn’t be the same without him.</p>
<p>He takes no pleasure in telling Potter that’s exactly why he won’t be returning. He has no wish to go back to the way things were, even without a noseless, genocidal maniac haunting his every move. He’ll be starting a potions apprenticeship in France in the spring, at the posthumous request of his godfather, thank you very much. It seems disloyal to ignore Snape’s wishes he tells Potter, especially after the lengths he went to on Draco’s behalf. </p>
<p>The smile on Potter’s face falters briefly and he nods again in quick succession with a ‘yeah’ and a ‘sure’ before some of the brightness in his eyes fades. It’s all platitudes now—he’ll be missed (he won’t), he should keep in touch (he shouldn’t), and he hopes it all goes well for him (that seems to be sincere), but he’s really here for one thing, he says.</p>
<p>Potter pulls Draco’s wand from his back pocket (of all places) and holds it out with remarkably steady hands. He says that he’s been meaning to return it and apologizes for not doing so sooner. Draco’s fingers curl around it slowly, because he has to force himself not to snatch it out of Potter’s hand like the ungrateful little shit he used to be. He takes in a deep breath, but his brow furrows because it should feel like coming home, but it doesn’t, not quite. He stares down at it and realizes there’s something else there, embedded somewhere between the hawthorn and his skin, an old tension and a new warmth that he can’t place, but at the same time feels distinctly familiar. It prickles against his magic, starting a slow burn in his chest. He glances back up and knows precisely what it is.</p>
<p>It’s Potter.</p>
<p>Like it fucking always is.</p>
<p>The prickle against his skin and the burn in his chest spread out all over his body, and he sees nothing but Fiendfyre in Potter’s eyes.</p>
<p>It’s never been clearer to Draco than in this moment exactly how much Potter just…is.</p>
<p>He braces against the sudden feeling of being swallowed, of being dragged out to sea without an anchor. Of the reality of being alive, and why.</p>
<p>Draco licks dry lips and manages, “We’d really all be dead if it wasn’t for you, wouldn’t we?”</p>
<p>Potter’s gaze is intense, powerful, and utterly unsettling. But there is no ego in his voice when he says, “Probably.” </p>
<p>00000</p>
<p>Three years later, fresh off a French Potions Mastery, the hard soles of Draco’s bespoke Italian loafers echo down Ministry corridors. He’s flanked on either side by Aurors Ron Weasley (still ginger as fuck) and some Hufflepuff he can’t be arsed to remember. He can feel Weasley’s glare on the back of his neck like fingers, slowly threatening to choke the air from his lungs. Which is patently ridiculous because Draco’s done nothing in the past three years but catapult himself into the lauded position of youngest Potions Master…ever. Suck it, Father.</p>
<p>His days of pathetically attempted evil are long behind him, which apparently the DMLE knows, since they’ve begged him to come in and consult (for an extravagant fee, no less) on a particularly difficult case involving an illegal potions smuggling ring.</p>
<p>Weasley slips around him on silent boots and directs him left down to the end of the hall. He knocks twice and opens the door marked ‘Head Auror’ on a shiny brass plate and stands aside for Draco to enter. The door is shut unceremoniously behind him. Behind the large mahogany desk sits Robards, looking as pinched and terse as he expected. The letter contacting him had read much the same. Begrudging and hat in hand, yet displeased at having to make the overture.</p>
<p>And of course, standing to the left of the desk, is fucking Potter. Stilted pleasantries are exchanged, Potter looks indescribably smug, and Draco sits at Robards’ direction. From there, it’s all shot to hell when Robards opens his mouth and reveals the real reason for calling Draco back from France. This case has little to do with potions, and absolutely everything to do with rogue Death Eater terrorist cells. Even worse, they expect him to liaise with, of all people in the known universe, his fucking father. From Azkaban. Before Robards can say anymore, Draco bursts from the chair and tells them no in an exceedingly colorful series of expletives that makes Robards stand and splutter and Potter roll his eyes and chuckle. </p>
<p>Potter’s strong hand graces Robards’ shoulder, urging him back down quietly and with apology. Well, fuck that for a game of soldiers. Draco turns, ready to give his last sickle for a portkey when Potter calmly calls his name. He can’t imagine why he turns back. He can’t imagine why he’s going to listen to anything Potter has to say. But he turns all the same. Potter asks Robards for the room, and fuck if the man doesn’t jump from his chair and zip past Draco out the door like his robes are on fire.</p>
<p>It appears that Potter is the good cop (to use hackneyed Muggle expressions) in this scenario. Draco tells him exactly what he thinks of that. Potter chuckles again, the slight quirk to his lips highlighting the sharp edge of a jaw that Draco really shouldn’t be noticing right now. He steps around the front of the desk, coming close enough into Draco’s personal space that he’s tempted to step back. But he doesn’t because fuck Potter, fuck Robards, and fuck this shit. His best cutting Malfoy glare is second nature, and even easier when he’s laying it on Potter, who’s parked himself on the edge of Robards’ desk like it’s got a cushion there specially made for his arse.</p>
<p>As expected, the glare does nothing to faze Potter in the slightest. He simply smiles and asks after his mother with genuine interest. He says he hopes the move to Paris was beneficial for them both. He says he understands now why Draco couldn’t stay. </p>
<p>It’s far too charming and sincere to be anything but, and Draco feels only slightly guilty at his outburst. But only slightly. Potter apologizes for the deceit in getting him to return to England. He says he was against it from the start, and that Draco should have been approached differently. Potter’s face is nothing but earnest and incredibly handsome and it hits Draco at his core. Draco wants to believe it’s not Potter’s good looks and genuine nature that has him asking how he can help. Outside of talking to his father, of course, because that’s not happening. Period. End of story. Dealbreaker. Back to France before you can blink, Potter. But even though he wants to believe it isn’t, he knows it is.</p>
<p>Potter outlines a series of theories and connections related to this new Death Eater faction, and requests only Draco’s insight (if he has any) as the case goes on. That’s all, he promises. Just information and insight. To top it off, Potter even says that the only person he’ll have to deal with or speak to is him. No Robards, no other Aurors, no one else. Just him.</p>
<p>It sounds too good to be true, but knowing Potter, he’s too Gryffindor to go back on his word once he’s given it, so it should check out. Honestly, he’s been planning to return to England, especially now he’s gotten his Mastery. The Manor has been empty for far too long, and despite a string of sexually creative Frenchmen in his bed, Draco intensely dislikes the French.</p>
<p>So, it’s back to England, and back to Potter. He’s dramatic enough to think that this means something, this coming full circle, but there’s too much of his mother’s stubborn Black blood in him to be maudlin about it. What’s done is done. He’s here and he’s always been a magnet to Potter’s true north.</p>
<p>It’s with a heavy sigh of resignation that he says to Potter, “You’re going to be up my arse until this is all over, aren’t you?”</p>
<p>Potter’s grin is predatory. “Probably.”</p>
<p>00000</p>
<p>A year after that Draco sits at an upscale pub table across from his latest paramour, a stunningly gorgeous French transplant named Gilles, who is currently downing four galleon glasses of prosecco without batting an eyelash. This is his longest relationship by far (six months), and frankly it’s beginning to lose its luster.</p>
<p>Gilles is a free-spirited artist, which should have been Draco’s first clue at the outset that this wouldn’t last, but the man sucks cock so well Draco was two months in before he realized it. After that, the haze of fabulous sex tended to gloss over the rough edges. And now Draco’s bored with all of it, because although the pretty Frenchman’s oral skills are off the charts, he is, at his core, a total pillow princess.</p>
<p>Which, in and of itself, can be charming…to a point. Draco’s always fancied himself a bit of an aggressor when it comes to sex, but he’s generally topping from the bottom, so to speak. He sort of misses being pursued, being more demanding in his pleasure, and a partner who is a little more fluid in their sexual dynamic. Gilles wants to be pampered, and it’s become obvious that he relies on exceptional fellatio to get it. He can’t deny that Gilles is lovely and delicate, with a softness that beckons to be ruined. It’s been no hardship to worship his lithe body among silken sheets and candlelight, but the man’s personality simply doesn’t deserve it.</p>
<p>For all his softness and sex appeal, Gilles is also unbearably camp, a trait which Draco absolutely abhors with a passion. Good breeding and fussiness are one thing, but the over the top, attention grabbing diva routine is just gauche. Draco is open and out, make no mistake, his preferences are easily discerned at a glance, but his behavior is impeccable. Honestly, there’s no need to announce to anyone within a five-kilometer radius that he likes it up the arse. It’s simply no one’s business but his own.</p>
<p>The final nail in Gilles’ coffin is the fact that he enjoys spending Draco’s money far too much. He’s always been generous with his lovers, he can afford to be, but he’s far too young and far too attached to his galleons to be someone’s sugar daddy. So for that, the death knell on this relationship is sounding.</p>
<p>A quiet conversation in a public setting generally avoids any unpleasantness, but of course, Gilles is determined to be difficult. When Draco tells him firmly (Draco is cold, yes, but never intentionally cruel) that their acquaintance has come to its inevitable end, Gilles takes the opportunity to deliver a performance worthy of a BAFTA.</p>
<p>What can only be described as a shriek of indignation passes through Gilles’ plush, glittery-gloss covered lips. A shocked hand covers his heart as he bursts up from his seat, ensuring that all eyes in the quiet pub are now fixed on the spectacle that is about to occur. Gilles’ righteous outrage knows no bounds, because apparently no topic is off limit. Draco (and the entire pub at large) is treated to a running commentary of each of his flaws. He is aware of most of them, Draco knows he isn’t perfect (has never claimed to be, for that matter), but some of what spills from those cock-sucking lips is just ridiculous. Dramatic arms flail about, and Gilles’ voice rises in pitch with all the panache of bad Shakespeare as he proclaims that Draco is cruel (again, not intentionally), selfish (he absolutely is), a cheat (he absolutely isn’t), a liar and scoundrel (sometimes and reformed, respectively), shallow (yes), heartless (occasionally), and a terrible fuck with a tiny cock who couldn’t satisfy a man if his life depended on it.</p>
<p>It’s the worst case of bad monologuing he’s been witness to in quite some time. But Gilles will not go gentle into that good night without a final grand gesture of wounded pride. A single, solitary, honest-to-fucking-Merlin tear rolls down his alabaster cheek while a pained, broken sob professes that he thought Draco loved him.</p>
<p>The sneering scoff is unintentional, but it escapes Draco all the same. He takes a sip of his scotch and calmly tells Gilles that if he’s finished with his injured queen act, he should sit the fuck down or get the fuck out. A bitter hiss is Gilles’ reply, and he doesn’t hesitate to toss that overpriced, mediocre flute of prosecco right in Draco’s face before huffing out the door.</p>
<p>Wonderful. He supposes he should be glad that Gilles never drank red wine, otherwise his five-thousand pound bespoke Huntsman suit would be ruined. Draco makes his way to the bar when a chuckle draws his eye to the right. As if this evening can’t get any worse, fucking Potter is slouched against the bar rail, sipping his drink, looking for all the world like he’s just been thoroughly entertained.</p>
<p>Draco opens his mouth to ask the bartender for a napkin to make an attempt at drying off, but a pristine white handkerchief is thrust under his nose. Potter’s smile is still there, but there is also a low heat banking in those green eyes. He says that Potter doesn’t seem the handkerchief type, but thanks him all the same. Potter shrugs and tells him he carries one for his godson. Apparently, they go for ice cream often, and the boy is quite messy.</p>
<p>There’s a bit of small talk, none of it about what recently transpired, thank Merlin, general pleasantries they never managed when working together a year ago, but that low fire in Potter’s eyes is growing and Draco finds himself responding to it without question. He is used to all sorts of pretext and innuendo which precedes a sexual liaison. Depending on his mood, he either finds it stimulating or tedious. But the longer Potter sips his drink, the longer his eyes linger over Draco’s body, it becomes clear that witty banter is completely unnecessary. They’ve done the cat and mouse, albeit under startlingly different circumstances. They’ve played this game. There’s already been a winner.</p>
<p>And it’s always Potter.</p>
<p>Potter’s eyes are trained on Draco like he’s the only thing worth looking at in the room, and fuck if it hasn’t been a long time since that’s happened. Potter wants, and it doesn’t take a second for Draco to realize he’s going to give it to him.</p>
<p>Draco folds the now damp handkerchief and slides it across the bar to Potter. He knows he’s reading this right, but he still takes a steadying breath before he gives Potter a roguish grin. “You’re going to fuck me tonight, aren’t you?”</p>
<p>Potter licks his lips and sets his glass on the bar. “Probably.”</p>
<p>00000</p>
<p>The second the soles of Draco’s shoes hit Grimmauld’s hardwoods, Potter is on him like a crup just let off the lead. The kiss isn’t frantic, but it is frenetic in its focused intensity. Potter is a man on a mission, intent on claiming his mouth, and Draco is helpless to stop him. Neither does he want to. Strong hands grab Draco’s hips, fingers splayed wide to control his movement. Potter surges forward with purpose, licking hotly into Draco’s mouth, all the while steering him backward. Draco goes without hesitation.</p>
<p>It’s a sensory onslaught of the first order, every single one of them suffocated underneath the sheer sexual energy Potter exudes. Something stops their backwards trajectory, and Potter’s hands slide up to Draco’s back to cushion him from the abrupt stop. Potter now has more leverage to press his muscled frame against Draco’s body, getting as close their clothes will allow. He doesn’t know what he’s been backed into—a wall, a door, a fuck-all piece of antique furniture—but it’s flat and vertical and gives Draco enough support to buck his hips into Potter’s. There’s a hard ridge of an erection that matches his own.</p>
<p>Potter groans, hot and humid, into his mouth and resumes attempting to take Draco apart with kisses alone. He mouths at the edge of Draco’s jaw, just under his ear, and licks at the strip of skin there. He gasps at the sensation, and Potter murmurs his approval while a hand snakes up to tangle in his hair. Potter’s fingers curl and <em>pull</em>, and the moan that comes out of his mouth is patently obscene. He feels Potter’s dark chuckle as it shivers its way down his body, ending at the tip of his confined cock. It’s the fastest he’s ever gotten hard in his life. And by Merlin, he is hard.</p>
<p>He’s off-kilter, caught on the back foot, fumbling like it’s his first heavy grope in a dark Hogwarts corridor. And here’s Potter, directing it all with natural ability. Potter’s effortless command has him rattled and aroused at the same time. He returns Potter’s kisses, presses back into Potter’s body, but for some reason, he has no idea what to do with his hands. He pats up and down the sides of Potter’s body, unsure which part he wants to touch first. Potter smiles into his mouth, grabs his wrists, and wraps Draco’s arms around his neck.</p>
<p>In the next second, Potter apparates them to what he assumes is Potter’s bedroom, but he can’t look around to confirm. Not while Potter is pressing his hands against Draco’s chest and is doing a magnificent job of peeling Draco out of his suit, piece by piece. His only assist is to kick off his shoes because Potter has Draco otherwise occupied with panting roughly into his shoulder. Soon the five-thousand pound Huntsman is scattered across Potter’s floor and Draco can’t be arsed to care.</p>
<p>The moment Draco realizes he’s naked, Potter grabs his hips again, leading him to the bed. When he hits the edge, Potter puts a firm hand on his shoulder, pushing him to sit. From there, Draco is treated to the sight of Potter stripping himself with ruthless precision. Potter is gorgeous, but naked Potter is breathtaking. If he thought Potter’s cock was thick when they pressed together before, he is totally thrown by the actual size that is straining toward him. Potter slides his hands underneath to grope Draco’s arse and position him further up the bed.</p>
<p>Adjustment made, they come together, skin on skin as Potter bears him down to the mattress. Potter hitches Draco’s left leg high up on his hip, slotting their cocks together on a rough sigh. Draco hooks his ankle around Potter’s waist and keens as Potter takes them both in hand and strokes hard, thumbing through the wetness of Draco’s leaking tip. He’s embarrassed at the high pitch and neediness to his voice, but Potter merely huffs and latches onto one of Draco’s nipples, biting and suckling at the taut peak.</p>
<p>Draco gasps for air, his chest is rising and falling like a bellows, his heart is racing, and his pulse is pounding in his ears. Potter continues his merciless assault, mapping out every line, dip, and hollow he can get his mouth and hands on. Touches and teases come from everywhere and Draco can’t wrap his head around exactly what’s happening. The need to touch Potter is fierce, so Draco bats Potter’s hand away and replaces it with his own, circling his fingers around Potter’s dripping erection. Potter grunts like the sound has been punched from his lungs, a short, deep exhalation that makes his pupils blow wide. Potter throws his head back and Draco attacks his neck, memorizing the taste of Potter’s skin on his tongue. He bites at the juncture of neck and shoulder, teeth pressing in a way that’s sure to leave a mark. His tongue laves over the bite, soothing it before sucking again. This must flip a switch somewhere within Potter because he comes absolutely unglued, and Draco realizes two things about Potter he’s never known before.</p>
<p>First, his wandless magic is effortless. Not to mention wordless as well. It’s so unbelievably hot Draco could scream. Potter holds a hand out and a bottle of high-end lubricant flies into his outstretched fingers. Before he knows it, Potter’s teasing around the edge of his hole with a well-slicked finger. One finger slides in carefully, gentle but focused, and Draco’s breath stutters in pleasure. One becomes two, two becomes three, and then the head of Potter’s magnificent cock is breaching him, filling him up beautifully. Potter eases the rest of the way in, bottoming out on a harsh breath. His hips undulate, giving Draco three slow, maddening slides before he hitches Draco’s hips higher, leans over and proceeds to fuck Draco into the mattress.</p>
<p>The second thing is: Potter has an absolutely filthy mouth. With his arms bracketing Draco’s head, he leans and whispers the dirtiest things Draco’s ever heard. It’s not normally something that does it for him, the dirty talk, but the base, crude pictures Potter keeps painting are striking a definite chord. The litany doesn’t stop, but then it turns softer, yet no less erotic. Draco’s never been sweet, and he’s certainly no boy, but when those words drip from Potter’s mouth onto his skin, something deep inside Draco <em>catches</em>, pulling his body tight, making it bow under the strain. The whispered praise keeps coming, dulcet and delicious, and it hits Draco so hard because, yes, he wants to be good, yes, he wants to be perfect, wants to be all of the honeyed things Potter says he is. It fills him with such satisfaction that Draco decides the next time they do this (Merlin, please) he wants to ride Potter so hard he cries.</p>
<p>The orgasm takes him completely by surprise, and he cries out as the rush blazes through him, igniting like wildfire. Potter’s whispers don’t let up, not at all—Draco takes his cock so well, Draco is hot and tight and perfect, and Draco is beautiful when he comes. Potter’s breath goes sharp as he groans out his release, spilling inside Draco with his name on his lips.</p>
<p>The afterglow is warm and sleepy, but Draco knows that this might never happen again. He waits the appropriate two minutes (not too short to be rude, not too long to be clingy) in Potter’s arms before shifting to get up and get dressed. But Potter’s having none of it. He tightens his hold on Draco and rolls them to the side. Draco chokes back a squeak because he’s never the little spoon. He’s not used to spooning.</p>
<p>Potter stretches out along his back, rubbing against him like an overly affectionate kneazle, except this kneazle moves a hand down to let two fingers lightly stroke across his puffy rim. Draco sucks in a breath as those two fingers slide through the mess of Potter’s come only to push it back inside. Potter growls and bites down on Draco’s earlobe as he shallowly finger fucks him, thumb rubbing in playful circles for added stimulation.</p>
<p>Potter’s still using breathy words like perfect and precious and gorgeous and Draco knows he’s done for. He’s not leaving. Rabid thestrals could drag him from Potter’s bed.</p>
<p>He bucks back into Potter’s fingers with a sated smile. “You’ve ruined me, Potter.”</p>
<p>Potter bites at the nape of his neck. “Probably.”</p>
<p>00000</p>
<p>Eighteen months later, Draco is bopping around Grimmauld’s kitchen in one of Harry’s (he’s only Potter now when Draco’s cross) t-shirts and a pair of well-worn jeans. He’s barefoot, got a kitchen towel slung over one shoulder, and is currently elbows deep in making Harry’s favorite dinner. Harry loves a good spag bol. It’s an ordinary evening, like so many they’ve shared since Draco moved in. No plans for this Friday night except for a nice dinner, a nice bottle of wine, and maybe some classic Who on the telly. In other words, perfect.</p>
<p>The creak of the stairs gives Harry away as he walks into the kitchen. He smells like damp lemon and lavender and he knows Harry’s been pilfering his favorite body wash…again. He’s got to keep stirring so the sauce won’t scorch, so he doesn’t turn when Harry sidles up behind him and wraps strong arms around his chest.</p>
<p>He looks down at where Harry’s hands are clasped together. Before he can ask what Harry’s holding, a hand opens and Draco’s eyes fall on a velvet box that he knows can only come from his favorite jeweler. Harry pops the box open to reveal a thin platinum band studded with sparking pave diamonds. It’s flashy, yet subtle. It’s totally Draco.</p>
<p>Harry’s breath is warm on his neck and his lips just brush across Draco’s ear. “You’re going to marry me, Malfoy.”</p>
<p>Draco doesn’t miss a beat. “Probably.</p>
<p> </p>
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